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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29097324">Sight for Sore Eyes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckmyplans/pseuds/wreckmyplans'>wreckmyplans</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Angst, Angst and Humor, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bisexual Female Character, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hunters &amp; Hunting, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Reader-Insert, Romance, Temporary Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:01:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,618</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29097324</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckmyplans/pseuds/wreckmyplans</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Y/L/N feels like her world is caving in when one day, a man with piercing eyes and a familiar face shows up in her E.R. Who is he, and why does he refuse to sleep without one eye open? Little does she know that maybe she should be keeping a close watch as well.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel (Supernatural) &amp; You, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester &amp; You, Sam Winchester/Reader, Sam Winchester/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>God, it’s hot. That’s your first thought as you slide into your car and grasp the sizzling metal of the seat belt to slide it into place, and that same thought repeats over and over in your head as you pull out of the parking lot of your apartment building and onto the main road. Sweat materializes on your skin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand and then wipe that on the scrunchy material of your scrubs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s still dark out, but the summer months in Kansas can get unbearable, and it’s nearing the end of August. Although the weather is part of what drew you to this residency program in the first place - growing up in California with your cousins taught you that summer is a year-long event, and you appreciate that Kansas has it’s four separate seasons. You’ve only been here for three years since starting your residency, but you’re reasonably happy. Well, maybe not </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy </span>
  </em>
  <span>- not anymore - but the regrets that weigh your shoulders down are not the kind that can be fixed with air conditioning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The commute is short, not leaving you much time to stew in the cesspool that is your mind when left alone, and traffic isn’t nearly as bad in Kansas. When you arrive at the hospital, you take a moment to breathe. Maybe it would be smarter to get out of your tiny car before you overheat and end up a patient, but you need another minute before you can go back in there. The last time was hard enough, and the time before that. Just the sight of the building makes bile rise in your throat now, makes your mind reel with memories of loud beeping and people rushing past you to fix your goddamn mistakes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Real</span>
  </em>
  <span> mistakes with real consequences. Ones you never realized you would be signing up for when you went into pre-med at age 17.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A loud knock at your window reminds you where you are, and you will your heart to slow from its dangerous racing as you glance up. A relieved sigh escapes your lips - it’s just Liz, perhaps the most tolerable of the residents in your cluster. You roll down the window and fix her with your patented bitch face. “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolls her eyes and tugs on the handle. “For you not to be late and piss off the chief. I refuse to deal with her temper for the rest of this hellish morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not morning,” you grumble, rolling the window down and hopping out of the car. The beep echoes through the large lot as you lock it. “It’s very, very late night. Morning doesn’t start until the sun comes up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so right, Y/N.” The two of you walk side-by-side through the double doors, hurrying to the locker room to put away your things. Liz groans again, rubbing her eyes as she pulls her pager out and clips it to her waistband. “Can’t people just wait until after 10 am to get sick?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They could, but then we’d lose our premiums,” calls out another resident, Angela, from the other side of the room. You roll your eyes as Liz makes not-so-subtle heart eyes and giggles at the sound of her voice and her decidedly unfunny joke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ, just ask her out already,” you whisper, shoving her arm. She flushes a bright shade of pink and shakes her head.</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“No way. I don’t even know if she’s into girls!” she whispers back fiercely. “Besides, we work together. It would be awkward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You groan. “No, what’s awkward is dealing with your guys’s freaking tension. I can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>stand</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. Seriously, now </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> need to get laid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liz barks out a laugh. “Do what you need to do, as long as you don’t steal my girl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, if </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>don’t tap that-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y/N.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you concede, glaring without any fire behind it. As if you would get in the middle of their adorable banter anyway, no matter how frustrating it is. “Just don’t wait too long. You don’t want to miss your chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shuts her locker, abruptly changing the subject. “What’s the schedule for today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pause for a moment, trying to remember. When you do, your stomach churns uneasily. “I’m with Dr. Peters on trauma. Pretty sure you’re on cardio.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liz fist-pumps the air. “Finally! Becker’s been hogging cardio for weeks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I guess I can’t convince you to switch with me, then?” you try, heart sinking at her immediate wince.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y/N… you know I would-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I get it. You need the experience if you’re gonna specialize. It’s not a big deal.” You wave her off, hoping you look less crestfallen than you feel. While your so-called ‘puppy eyes’ may get you what you want ninety-nine percent of the time, that doesn’t mean you like using them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” You look up - when did your head fall? - and she’s watching you carefully with that awful look of pity embedded into every line of her face, and you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, but you know she can’t help it any more than you can help the feeling of dread crawling up your spine. “It’s going to be okay, you know? It was just one mistake. No one blames you for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever,” you reply sharply, jutting away from the hand on your shoulder. You clear your throat, not that it does anything against the thick knot blocking the air from your lungs. “We should get going. Like you said, can’t be late.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither of you say another word until the morning does, in fact, begin, hours later when the sun comes up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luckily for you, nothing comes into the E.R. worse than a couple stitches and a broken leg. That much you can handle today. Yet still, your fingers twitch anxiously as you hear the other residents lamenting the very thing you celebrate, and it makes you wonder if you’re still cut out for this job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I swear, nothing exciting ever happens around here,” your colleague Grant mutters under his breath. He says it quietly enough that the attending won’t chew him out for being unsympathetic but not quietly enough that it doesn’t reach your ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should be glad of that,” you shoot back unthinkingly. “It means no one is hurt badly enough to need our help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, not </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> help,” the man snorts. “You’re no fun since you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Becker,” warns your attending, apparently having tuned into the conversation. “Go check on your patient, please, instead of tormenting your peers. You are a doctor, aren’t you?” The resident grunts but eventually listens, trudging over to the five-year-old girl with a pink band-aid on her forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shoot a grateful yet still half-hearted smile at Dr. Peters. “Thank you for that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The attending physician shrugs. “I hate bullies. Have since grade school.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m inclined to agree.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flips through the chart in his hands, glancing at his pager again. “Do you have any patients right now, Dr. Y/L/N?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, my last patient was discharged an hour ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. Peters smiles. “You should take a moment for a late lunch. It’s been a long day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your stomach grumbles, and you want to agree, but you still feel nauseous from this morning and doubt that eating would help at all. “Thank you, sir, but I think I would rather stay here in case something comes up.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Other than my breakfast sandwich</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man tucks the clipboard under his arm. “Suit yourself, but I don’t want you passing out from hypoglycemia, okay?” You nod mutely, instead fixing your gaze on the floor. Your mind drifts away from you for a minute, from this place with drips and bedpans and death to the bright filter of summer, years ago, of strawberry popsicles and chasing butterflies and laughing when you fell instead of crumpling into a hopeless pile of bones. You’re only brought out of your reverie when the crash of doors being flung open echoes like shattered glass through the quiet room.</span><br/>
<br/>

  <span>That’s when you see </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the first time.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The man who came into the ER is like no one you've ever met, and you can't figure out why.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CW: see end note</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When you were seven years old, you and your cousin had been playing in her backyard when she’d accidentally let go of the balloon she’d gotten earlier that day. It was a pretty thing, blue and iridescent and shimmering in the sunlight as it rose up into the sweltering heat. She’d cried for two weeks after that, even when your aunt tried to tell her that the balloon wouldn’t have lasted that long, anyway, that her sorrow had outlived the object of her foolish grief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’re not sure why you suddenly remember that memory at this moment until you look into the man’s eyes and wonder what he’s lost that he’s mourning so strongly. His forehead gushes blood, and his arm is bent at an unseemly angle. Wild madness flickers in his eyes as he marches up to you, gaze raking up and down your attire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you a doctor?” he presses, not aggressively but fiercely enough that you take a step back. He notices this, too, and there’s a sudden shift in his persona - his shoulders relax a bit, chest less puffed out defensively. You think maybe he knew you were frightened and so his body responded instinctively, and you’re a toss-up between intrigued and embarrassed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I am,” you reply, grateful that your tone is at least steady. “Can I help you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I need some medical attention,” he says, and your brows furrow. He seems far too calm. There’s barely a trace of pain in the way he moves… but it’s there in his eyes, you realize. Although something tells you it’s more than that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, sir, there’s a few forms you need to fill out-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know the drill, but I…” He trails off and shifts slightly, and that’s when you see him wince for the first time, and then he’s moving the hand that you only just notice he’s been clutching to his abdomen, and the entire time you’ve been speaking he’s been bleeding out of a wound in his stomach, and your head suddenly feels far too light. Not because of the blood - you’re a doctor, you’ve seen blood. No, something about this man frightens you and entrances you at the same time, and you don’t like that one bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assume this means I get to skip the line,” he says sheepishly, a pained half-smile coming over his dry, cracking lips. His face gets paler and paler by the minute, and you wonder how much blood he’s already lost, how he’s standing upright. You’ve… well, you’ve never seen anything like it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The blasphemy slips out without a second thought as you quickly pull on a pair of gloves, and you cringe at the little smile it creates on the man’s lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not quite,” he mutters humorously. “The name’s Sam, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Funny,” you quip, dragging him over to a patient bed and yanking the curtains closed around your area. A deep, guttural groan slips past his lips as he lifts himself onto the bed, eyes squeezed shut. Pity fills your stomach, and you hesitate before lifting up his shirt, bloody, caked and dried to his skin. Damn. He shrugs as you look up, and you ask him to take a deep breath before quickly peeling it off of him and holding it above his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God fucking- gnuhh,” he hisses, brows screwed up in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” you murmur comfortingly, patting his arm with the hand that isn’t holding his shirt up. “Can you move your arms so I can take this off, or do I need to cut it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head almost immediately, lifting his arms up so you can pull the shirt carefully over his head. You go to toss the article aside, but something about the way he looks at it makes your chest tighten. It’s a tad small for him, you realize, a grey AC/DC tee that feels warm and used in your hands. And there’s no hole anywhere. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You glance back at Sam’s abdomen and notice that it looks an awful lot like a stab wound. But there’s no hole in his shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You clear your throat, setting the shirt delicately on the tray table. His eyes soften in relief, and he looks up at you nervously. “I’m sure you want to know how…” he says, gesturing at himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not important right now,” you dismiss, sensing that he doesn’t want to talk, not in the slightest. You examine his wound in silence, deciding that it’s not bad enough for emergency surgery but you should close it up before he loses any more blood. Grabbing a sterile solution, you begin rinsing the skin methodically. You hear him breathe loudly through his nose as you work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a minute of that, he seems more at ease, which puzzles you endlessly. He’s sure to be in immeasurable pain, and yet he lets himself relax into the bed, as though he trusts you wholly. Sure, you’ve seen it in worse trauma cases - the patient will focus on one thing through their fear, getting to the hospital, and once they’re here they truly believe that you’ll fix everything. If you’re being honest, it’s the scariest part of your job, being trusted so completely with someone’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Sometimes you think you weren’t cut out for so much responsibility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can practically hear the cogs turning in your brain,” Sam says. Your eyes snap up to his, and you’re ashamed that he caught you. He gives you a strange look, then. “You remind me of someone…” He trails off, waiting for your name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y/N,” you supply absent-mindedly before flushing and remembering yourself. “Sorry, uh, Dr. Y/L/N. Because I’m… a doctor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And how lucky I am that you are,” he teases - flirts? - and pushes his hair away from his face. Nope, you’re not opening </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> can of worms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who do I remind you of?” you ask as you pull up a dose of anesthesia, flicking the needle cap off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head tilts to the side. “You don’t need to give me that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That.” He points to the injection in your hands. “It’s not necessary.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>anesthesia</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you reply. “It is necessary. I need to suture your wound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips fold together then, and he shrugs. “Alright.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, are you afraid of needles or something?” you ask, because that’s probably the reason, but you’re gonna have to do much worse than a little shot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He snorts. “No, no I’m not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either way, you think it’s best that you distract him. “So, you said I remind you of someone?” you repeat, injecting the anesthetic quickly and easily. He doesn’t even wince. Huh, so he wasn’t lying about not being afraid of needles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, my…” He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> wince now, when you’re not even touching him, and that’s something, now isn’t it? “My brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he a doctor, too?” you ask, because that’s all he really knows about you. Sam winces again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, no,” he says as you grab your suture kit, “but he seemed to think he was, sometimes, when he would... uh, yeah. I guess watching too much Dr. Sexy does that to a person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You roll your eyes. “My cousin loved that show. Wanted to be in it so bad that she would dress up sometimes and pretend.” You’re not really sure why you open up to him like this, but you figure it can’t be a bad thing when he smiles, a real one, the first since he’s been here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She must steal your white coat all the time, then,” he jokes, eyes sparkling beautifully with mirth. “I know my brother would if I had one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure she would have,” you reply, smile becoming something sad before you can stop it. Sad in a happy way, you like to think. Remembrance instead of mourning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam seems to realize immediately. You wonder how much experience he’s had with death to understand from your expressions, enigmatic, or so you’ve been told. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” you reply, because it really is. “It was years ago. Half my life ago. The only way I remember her is fondly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You work in silence for a few minutes, suturing his wound with precise hands, and the pain has all but bled from his face somehow. He taps his fingers against the metal bed frame, not impatient but idle, like his hands are always busy doing something or another. “My brother died last week,” he says suddenly, glancing down to meet your gaze. Your hands still, lips parting in surprise, but not shock - it makes sense with the grief you saw on his face earlier. It was raw, fresh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry for your loss,” you echo his words from before, an empathetic comfort settling over the two of you that you’ve never quite felt before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He… He wasn’t supposed to go yet.” Sam’s face hardens with anger and frustration. “It wasn’t his time. Hell, I could have saved him! I…” He relaxes again, but this time it feels conscious. “I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think of me as a bartender,” you supply. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll leave a good tip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He quirks an eyebrow. “Do they tip doctors now? I haven’t been to a hospital in a few years, but I wasn't aware the social conventions had changed so drastically.” His humour seems to come out of left field until you realize he’s deflecting to avoid talking about it. You decide to let him. Maybe he regrets opening up to you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haha. Sam, you’re an absolute riot,” you reply drily, biting back a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He startles for a second, like he forgot he told you his name, and blinks. “Right, uh…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do have to ask now,” you say, saving him from himself as you smooth a bandage over his skin, “how you got injured. You know, in case I need to call the police. No offence, but this is a tad shady.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None taken,” he shoots back. “Would you believe me if I said I… dropped a knife while I was cooking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyebrows shoot high up into your hair. “Is that a real question?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shrugs. “I had to try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you?” you ask. “Why not just tell the truth? You’re not doing much to make me believe this was an accident.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think you would believe me if I told you.” His eyes widen after he says it, and you think maybe he didn’t mean to. You also have no idea what it meant. Sam coughs, looking away. “I just mean it’s nothing to be concerned about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” you say without thought. Maybe you shouldn’t have. Maybe this is bigger than you. “You changed shirts before coming here? There was no hole in it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stiffens, eyes falling onto his discarded shirt. You pick it up and hand it to him, and he pulls it over his head. “This is- </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>my brother’s,” he reveals, sighing as it sits against his skin. “I don’t know why I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You smile sympathetically as you shuck off your blood-covered gloves and toss them in the trash. “I slept in my cousin’s bed for weeks after she died. We lived together, you know. Grew up together. Like sisters.” You kneel in front of him and take one of his hands, seriousness spreading like the plague across your features. “Sam, did you do this to yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No.” He shakes his head vehemently, but it slows in speed as a minute passes, and eventually he’s just still. He sighs and looks up, red-rimmed eyes brimming with expertly unshed tears. “It was an accident, really. This wasn’t meant to happen. It wasn’t part of…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sam, I know this is hard, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to know what happened in case an infection sets in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s hard to explain,” Sam begins, but it seems like he’s going to keep going this time, so you let him speak. “I… I guess you could say it was a nail.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>nail</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rebar,” he elaborates, pain blooming on his face. “It didn’t go all the way in, but enough to make me…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” you cut him off, standing up. “That’s all I need to know. Have you had a tetanus shot in the last ten years?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinks up at you. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A tetanus shot, Sam. We don’t want you to get a potentially life-threatening infection. Have you had the shot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sure? I haven’t thought about things like that in a long time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, well, I’m going to have a nurse give you one now just to be safe,” you explain, grabbing the chart by his bed and scribbling in it. “After that I would like to set you up with an IV and keep you overnight for observation. You can leave tomorrow morning if all goes well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” You can feel his eyes on the back of your head as you walk out the door, but you still don’t expect him to stop you. “Dr. Y/L/N?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You turn around to face him. “Yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives you a small, sad smile. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re welcome, Sam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, you ask Liz to do your follow-ups, and you find yourself asleep on the couch by 9 pm, throw pillows damp with tears as a children’s movie flickers across the small TV.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CW: minor mentions of self-harm (no actual self-harm)</p><p>I haven't seen a Sam x Reader fic that takes place after the finale, so I decided to write it. I know this is a little darker than most of these types of fics, but I felt it was necessary in the wake of everything that's happened. Hope you enjoyed!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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